


off to the races

by bukowsking



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Angst, Emotions, F/M, False Identity, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Russian, Seeking Arrangements, Smut, Sugar Baby, Tony Stark Feels, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Sex, avoidance of emotions, texts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 08:24:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21051314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukowsking/pseuds/bukowsking
Summary: "jesus, you look like a sugar baby.""that's because i am, tasha. it's called seeking arrangements. and you should really give it a go."ornat's best friend suggests she try out being a sugar baby. what could possibly go wrong?





	off to the races

**Author's Note:**

> i own nothing but the storyline, which a friend requested. enjoy xx

one would naturally assume that making the move from the armpit of russia to the bright lights of new york city was a smart move, perhaps one that could even save a person's life. but natasha romanoff would tell you different. she'd tell you that having to work day in and day out in a dive bar of a restaurant making mediocre pay just to barely afford the rent in an apartment too small for the two women who occupied it was not what she imagined. she'd tell you that riding in the rat-infested subways and dodging cat callers and handsy grabbers at all hours of the night almost wasn't worth the escape she made from a house that was no one's idea of home. she'd tell you that in a deep part of her subconscious, she thought herself better off dead.

"проклятие." she cursed beneath her breath, body leaning as she carefully avoided the mess she'd just made in the main dining hall. no one would tell her this, but it wasn't her fault martin didn't warn her about how hot those plates were going to be. instead, she gets the brunt of her boss' insults, and drops down to mop up the spilled tomato sauce. this, she decides, is what her hell looks like.

later, she'll come to understand that that was just the first circle of it, as she takes her seat on the lukewarm subway, and promptly realizes that she's sat in someone's mess. vomit, to be specific. it's almost comical, she notes, how each day of hers is marked with nothing but bad to worse situations. occasionally, she'll hear a laugh track and a live audience, because her life is more bearable imagined as some primetime sitcom on cbs.

wanda maximoff is a decent enough roommate, given the fact that she's hardly ever in the apartment. no, wanda, you see, gets out into the world. a date here or there, a shift at the closest record store, where she deigns in casual sex with attractive enough customers and steals ratty band t-shirts from. she's kind enough to offer up both suitors and clothing to nat, but nat never partakes. wanda's choice in men is questionable, and her choice in style even moreso. her red leather trench coat says that on its own. 

said roommate's nose wrinkles as nat drops her keys in the bowl and toes off her converse. "yeesh, is that vomit?" she hides her face in her sleeve, suppressing the urge to gag as nat simply raises a brow and trudges down the hall to their - obviously shared and hideously disheveled - bathroom. 

"good ol' new york." nat replied, deadpan as always, chucking her soiled work pants into the overfilled laundry bin and locking the door behind her to take solace in the never-hot-enough water of the shower. she'll spend the majority of her time crying rather than washing up, but that's neither here nor there. it's also none of anyone's business. 

post-crying session, nat towel dries her red locks, taking comfort in her coziest pair of sweatpants a ratty old t-shirt that belonged to bucky, an old friend who'd just recently made the move to brooklyn to be amongst the ever-growing niche gay community with his high school sweetheart, sam wilson. trudging into the living room after having microwaved the last packet of popcorn, nat plops herself onto the couch for a marathon of house reruns. nothing like medical anomalies and a heavy dose of hugh laurie's sarcasm to make a girl feel better. this is when wanda decides to waltz into the room, the click-clack of her heels on the hardwood floor grabbing nat's attention.

"jesus, you look like a sugar baby." the words slip from nat's mouth before she can stop them, taking in the skintight black dress and faux fur coat wanda was donning. could anyone really blame her for coming to that conclusion? the outfit was accentuated with a gaudy necklace and a matching black clutch, complete with gold accents that was a dead ringer for some designer knockoff. 

"that's because i  _ am _ , tasha. it's called seeking arrangements. and you should really give it a go." wanda's words were lilted with whimsy, as she waved goodbye with manicured hands and locked the door behind her. for all their differences, wanda understood what the reassurance of a locked door did for natasha. she understood enough to always call nat before wanda decided to stumble back into the apartment in the middle of the night. she may not know why, but she was aware of the fact that nat slept with a knife under her pillow more nights than not. nat was grateful.

as house's medical team droned about possible diagnoses for a woman who has very clearly suffering from sarcoidosis, nat allowed wanda's words to soak in. seeking arrangements. they sure made sex work csound classy enough. not that there was anything classless about sex work, mind you. nat was a feminist first, woman second.  _ maybe _ …

\----------------------------------

and this is how, somehow, nat finds herself an hour deep into creating an account on this godforsaken website. she uses a fake name, of course, natalie rushman. can't have any potential creeps getting a hold of her personal information, after all. once a proper photo was uploaded to her profile, it didn't take very long for… potential  _ suitors _ , let's call them, to fill up her inbox. 

**not_mister_grey** :  _ hey sexy ;-) how much for a meet? _

**tlldrkhndsme87** :  _ How does $200 for a picture of your feet sound _

**daddybigbuck$** :  _ ill give U $500 if u come over 2 fuck rn _

well, that was horrible while it lasted. nat was pretty sure that last message there was from a fifteen year old, and the other two just.. ugh. how in the hell did wanda find any decent matches on here? she must be a witch or something. in the brief time that nat spent on this hellhole, she was truly impressed by the variety of cretins. i mean, her expectations were very low, but  _ fuck _ . so, she drops her phone on the couch and easily forgets about the whole debacle as she aunters off into the kitchen to see what she can scrounge up for dinner.

it isn't until she's sat back on the couch with her bowl of leftover chili that she notices the unread message on her screen.

**youknowwhoiam_** :  _ Rushman, eh? Jewish? Never been one for lox myself, though I do admire your people's resilient stomachs for that stuff. _

nat's eyebrow raises, and before she can so much as digest that openner, her thumbs are moving over the keyboard.

**blckwdw: ** _ lox is an absolute abomination of a spread. no jewish ancestry here, though i do believe there's a distant relation to lauren bacall. _

**youknowwhoiam_: ** _ Explains the devastating good looks, then. Looking for your Humphrey Bogart?  _

nat can't help the smile that finds its way to her lips. her chili's gone cold, all but forgotten on the coffee table. she brings her knees to her chest, tucks into her phone, and spends the rest of the night talking to a one mister anthony carbonell. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments and criticisms are much appreciated! xx


End file.
